


Mr. Monk Beards the Dragon

by dragonmactir



Category: Monk (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-13
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-03-30 21:32:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13960437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonmactir/pseuds/dragonmactir





	1. Mr. Monk Goes Headbangin'

 

“Mr. Monk!  Mr. Monk!  I’ve got a big proposition for you!” Natalie Teager said, bouncing into Adrian Monk’s painfully tidy second-floor apartment with more than her characteristic enthusiasm.  “Steven -- you know, _my_ Steven -- bought tickets for the… what the _smack_ are you doing?”

 

Adrian put down the can of Lysol he had just sprayed from another can of Lysol he held in his other hand.  “Cleaning,” he said, with a simple shrug of one shoulder.

 

“You’re cleaning _cleaning products,”_ Natalie said, and watched as he picked up a gleaming bottle of Windex and gave it the same antibacterial treatment.

 

“Everything gets dirty,” Adrian said.  “Now, what was it you were saying, Natalie?”

 

She looked down at the pair of concert tickets held in her hand.  “You know what?  I got too excited.  I forgot that this really isn’t your thing.  I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

 

“Steven was unexpectedly deployed, then?  That’s why he couldn’t go with you to the music concert you want me to go to?  Why don’t you take Julie?  She likes concerts,” Adrian said, as he carefully began placing his cleaning supplies back in the cabinet, sorted alphabetically by type of cleanser, height and color.

 

“The concert is held at a nightclub.  You have to be twenty-one or older to go.  I just thought… well, never mind what I thought.  I’ll get one of my other friends to come with me.”

 

“It’s not a concert,” Adrian said, looking around for something.

 

“It’s not?”

 

“No, it’s not.  A concert is a performance given in a hall, an auditorium, an arena, or an open-air venue.  A performance at so small a location as a nightclub qualifies only as a recital or a ‘gig’ in common musical parlance.”

 

“I stand corrected,” Natalie said.  “Nevertheless, it’s a one night only acoustic _‘gig’_ by the Dragon, and I mistakenly thought I’d ask you first.  I don’t know what I was thinking.

 

He found his Swiffer stick and held it up in triumph, then paused and looked at Natalie.  “The Dragon?”

 

“Yeah.  Don’t tell me you’re actually a fan,” Natalie said.

 

“I’ve never heard anything by her, that I know of.  But isn’t she the one they’re constantly trying to bring up on charges of fraud?” Monk said.  He turned and put his Swiffer down on the counter, showing true interest in the conversation for the first time.

 

“Yes, they’ve been trying to do that for all thirty years of her illustrious career, Mr. Monk, and they’ve never succeeded.  Why?” Natalie said, throwing out a hip and crossing her arms over her chest.

 

Mr. Monk smiled that shit-eating “I’ve found the last piece of the puzzle” smile she loved and hated at the same time.  _“I’ve_ never tried to find out whether or not she’s a fraud,” he said.

 

“Aren’t you a _homicide_ detective?” Natalie pointed out.

 

“My talents suit me to many things, Natalie, you know that.  Finding missing persons.  Finding stolen goods.  Finding lost pets.  Didn’t you make me track down your seven year-old neighbor’s runaway puppy last month?”

 

“That’s different, that’s…”

 

“That’s what, Natalie?”

 

“That’s… for the greater good.”

 

“And this isn’t?  If she’s a fraud, she should pay.  If she isn’t, people should get off her back about it.  And Natalie, if she is a fraud, and I prove it, there would be a lot of money in that information.  A _lot_ of money.  Aren’t you always on me about money?  ‘Mr. Monk, it’s payday again!’  ‘Mr. Monk, this check bounced again!’  ‘Mr. Monk, do I have to get a lawyer?’”

 

“Pardon me, Mr. Monk, but you’ve never given a damn about money before,” Natalie said.

 

“And you’ve always _pushed_ me to give a d* about money before, Natalie.  Why are you trying to protect this woman?”

 

“I’m not, I’m trying to protect you,” Natalie said.  She threw up her arms and sighed.  “Look, I got two tickets with no one to go along with me, I got excited, my first thought was you.  My first thought is _always_ you.  But even though the Dragon does stuff that even you would probably like -- ”

 

“What stuff?” Adrian asked.  You could almost see his ears perk.

 

“Well, you know.  _Your_ kind of stuff.  _Willie Nelson_ -style stuff.  Old-style stuff.  ‘Georgia on my Mind,’ that kind of thing.  She actually does a great cover.  She doesn’t usually do covers, she all about original work.”

 

“That’s not what everybody thinks.  They think she’s a cheater,” Monk said.

 

“Yes.  Yes, Mr. Monk, some people do.  And now you’re going to insist on coming with me, and you’re going to turn my nice night out into a big case.  Great.  But Mr. Monk -- she’s not all about the old stuff.  She’s a metal musician, first and foremost.  A head-banger.  They actually created a special genre just for her music.”

 

“Oh?  What’s that?”

 

 _“‘Metal Noire.’_ She’s really dark most of the time.  Deep.  Depressing.  And she curses.  Even drops the F-Bomb sometimes.”

 

“Metal Noire?  Dark Metal?  Isn’t all metal music dark?”

 

“This is darker than dark.  Darker than _Death Metal_.  She is famous and infamous for being the only metal musician whose lyrics are sung completely comprehensibly to all and everyone.  And sometimes she sings lyrics that are… _sexually explicit.”_

 

Monk’s head twitched while his hands fidgeted with the Swiffer.  “I…  I can handle it.  I’m a grown man.”

 

“Oh, really?  You once had a near meltdown at the mere _suggestion_ that a cage full of white rabbits might be breeding in the same room with you, which they were _not,_ by the way, at that point in time,” Natalie said.

 

“And I also helped a dog give birth to a litter of pups, don’t forget.  I’ve grown,” Monk said.

 

“You were _well_ more than an arm’s length away at all times, but okay, I’ll give you that one,” Natalie said.  She looked at him and sighed again.  “You really want to do this?  What do you think you can find out at a _concert?”_

 

“Gig, Natalie.  It’s just a gig.”

 

“Okay -- what do you think you can find out at a ‘gig?’” Natalie amended.  “You’re not going to get to talk to her unless something freaking amazing happens.”

 

He shrugged one shoulder, a gesture that looked very much like his head twitch.  “I could potentially find out a lot.  Enough, maybe.”

 

“And you really think you can handle the music?” Natalie said in her best warning tones.

 

Monk smiled that cat’s smile again and reached out for one of the tickets.  “Natalie.  How much ‘metal’ can she be planning to play at a solo acoustic recital?  This gig will be tame.  No problem.  _No problemo.”_

 

Natalie sighed once more for good measure and shook her head.  “With you, Mr. Monk?  There’s _always_ a problem.”


	2. Mr. Monk at the Gig

“Where are our seats?” Monk asked for the twelfth time as he sidled through the club, _Rock’n Billy’s Review._

 

“I told you, Mr. Monk, there’s no assigned seating.  You sit wherever there’s an open seat or table.”

 

“There are no open tables, Natalie,” Monk said, and she could hear the panic animal in his voice.  “People are sitting willy-nilly.  You know how I feel about willy-nilly, Natalie.  This is not good, Natalie.  Not good at all.”

 

“Well, we’ll just have to find a couple of seats at a table with a kindly stranger, that’s all there is to it,” Natalie said.  “If you hadn’t flipped out halfway here and made me drive back to your apartment to check and see if you’d left the oven on -- after I know you’d already _checked_ to see if you’d left the oven on -- we wouldn’t have gotten here so late and there’d have been a table open for us.”

 

“Sit with strangers?  No, no no no no no no.”  Monk turned and started heading for the exit.

 

 _“Mr. Monk,”_ Natalie said, grabbing him hard by the arm.  “We are here now, we are not leaving.  She doesn’t give concerts often, I am not missing this for you.”

 

“It’s a gig, Natalie.”

 

“Whatever.”  She pulled him back towards the club interior and towards the stage.  A familiar gritty voice called out to them.

 

“Monk?  Natalie?  Monk!”

 

“Captain!” Natalie said, turning to greet Captain Leland Stottlemeyer and his newlywed wife T.K. with more than some little relief.  If anyone could calm Adrian down it was the Captain.  He was Monk’s first and fourth partner as well as the man who stood by him during those most horrible days of his psychotic break after his wife’s death.  His no nonsense attitude went a long way toward balancing out Monk’s foibles, though he certainly had his own breaking point where Monk was concerned.  He and his wife were wearing matching black Dragon t-shirts and drinking Scotch.

 

“What are you two doing here?” Stottlemeyer asked.  “I certainly never thought I’d find _you,_ Monk, at a _Dragon_ concert.”

 

“I’m here to investigate her for fraud,” Monk said matter-of-factly, nodding.

 

Stottlemeyer blinked rapidly, then nodded himself.  “That makes perfect sense to me, somehow.  How y’gonna do it?”

 

“Well, there’s three things that everybody thinks that she can’t really do, right?  Sing, play, and write.  I can’t prove that she doesn’t really write the songs, not here tonight, but I should be able to tell whether or not she’s really singing and playing.  That would be enough to go to one of those lawyers that’s always trying to sue her.”

 

Hesitation -- _long_ hesitation -- and then Stottlemeyer remembered his manners.  He gestured to the two empty chairs at the table and said, “Sit down, sit down.”

 

“Oh, we couldn’t intrude on your nice evening out,” Natalie said.

 

“Oh yes we could,” Monk said, already in a chair.  He smiled at T.K.  She smiled back uncomfortably.  Natalie smiled sheepishly at the Stottlemeyers as she sat down but in truth she was grateful.  Sitting with Monk at a stranger’s table would have been murderous.

 

“This is a good table, it has a good view,” Monk said, looking at the shrouded stage.

 

“What do you expect to see that will tell you anything?” the Captain said.

 

“Won’t know until I see it,” Monk said.  “Is she singing or just lip-synching?  Is she playing the guitar or are her fingers not really touching the strings?”

 

“And you think you can see that from here in a dark nightclub?” Stottlemeyer said.  He put his drink down.  “You know, just forget I said anything.  Forgot who I was talking to for a minute.”

 

Monk looked around for something.  “Is there a clock in here?  The performance should have started by now,” he said.

 

Stottlemeyer checked his watch.  “I’ve got seven o’clock sharp,” he said.

 

“Your watch is two minutes slow,” Monk said.  “I’ve been meaning to tell you, but you always get mad at me for things like that.”

 

“So at worst the performance is starting two minutes late.  Relax, Mr. Monk.  Performances are delayed by a matter of a few minutes all the time,” Natalie said.

 

“They could be having problems with the playback equipment,” Monk said.  “The stuff all her music is recorded on.”

 

“Wow, you really think she’s guilty before proven innocent, don’t you?” Natalie said, glowering at him.

 

“I’m just saying it’s a possibility, Natalie,” Monk said calmly.  “Captain, I wouldn’t have figured you for a metal fan.”

 

“I’m not, not exactly.  I certainly don’t listen to anything _else_ like that, at any rate.  But the Dragon is different.  She plays… everything.  I’d bet she even has something _you_ would like, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.  “She plays Big Band-type stuff once in awhile, and a lot of folk and folk rock.  You should actually give her a try sometime.  Fact of the matter is, it’s hard _not_ to like her, once you’ve heard something by her.  Even if a lot of her stuff is… a little wilder than you are.  Quite frankly we’re here tonight mostly because it’s probably not going to be the _really_ wild stuff.”

 

“Four minutes, it’s now four minutes late, Natalie,” Monk said.

 

“Be quiet, Mr. Monk.  The house lights are going down now,” Natalie said, applauding with everyone else.

 

The curtain opened on a monstrosity.  A woman wearing nothing but a men’s tuxedo dickey (quite a long one) and a black bowtie and nothing else, seated at a grand piano.  She had a large tattoo of a dragon curling around her back towards her front, she had chains leading from the hoop in her right nostril to the six piercings in her right ear.  Her hair, half blonde half brown, was swooped up and stiffened for about three inches and then left loose.  She cracked her knuckles and began to play a raucous melody that some few in the audience were able to recognize right off the bat as Warren Zevon’s “Excitable Boy.”  When she was finished she stood up (the dickey hid everything overly private), bowed, and exited stage left to riotous applause.  The curtain closed.  Monk clapped politely along with everyone else.

 

“So does the show start soon?” he said.  “Because it’s really, really late now.”

 

“Mr. Monk, that was the first song, just now.  The show started already,” Natalie said.

 

“No it didn’t.  The curtains haven’t opened yet.  Everyone started clapping, but nothing has happened yet.”

 

“He blacked out.  Couldn’t take it,” Stottlemeyer said, downing his Scotch and calling for another.

 

“Mr. Monk, I thought you could handle that kind of thing a little better now,” Natalie said.  “At least to the point where it didn’t make you black out.”

 

“What are you talking about?  What kind of thing?” Monk said, shaking his head in bewilderment.

 

“All you could see was her _bottom,_ Mr. Monk.”

 

“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE…”

 

“Mr. Monk!  Mr. Monk!  Stop it!  You are annoying everyone here!  Now the almost naked lady is gone!  It’s safe now!  Just… sit quietly.  Order a drink,” Natalie said.

 

“You know I don’t drink,” Monk said.

 

“They _probably_ have water here.”

 

“Summit Creek?”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“I don’t like ‘maybe,’” Monk said.  “It’s not nearly as good as ‘yes.’”

 

The spotlight went up on the stage again and the curtains parted.  The woman stood in the middle of the stage, thankfully clothed now, if you could call it that, in a plain black t-shirt and a pair of cut off jean shorts.  They were slightly uneven and extremely ragged.  She was barefoot.  Taking her in for the first time as a semi-rational individual, Monk realized something about her that blew his mind completely.

 

“Holy crackers, she must be eight feet tall,” he said in a low voice to the table at large.

 

“Seven feet, eleven inches,” Captain Stottlemeyer said.  He passed over a folded pamphlet.  “It’s all in her official info, Monk.  I take it you didn’t get one of these.”

 

“We got here a little late,” Natalie said, with some little acid in her voice.  “They were out of those.”

 

Monk swiftly paged through the small paper.  “It doesn’t say anything here about her eyes.”

 

“What about her eyes?” Stottlemeyer said.

 

“They’re split, half brown, half grey.  That’s a pretty big deal.  You’d think it would be mentioned.”

 

“You could see that from here?  Anyway, it’s just colored contacts.  A lot of metal rockers trick their eyes out with weird-ass colors,” Stottlemeyer said.

 

“She’s not wearing contacts,” Monk said.  “She usually does, but she’s not right now.  That’s why she’s slightly cross-eyed.  She can’t see.  She’s practically blind.  No, those eyes are caused by Horner’s Syndrome, also known as sectoral or segmental heterochromia.  It’s much more common in animals than it is in people, but about 1% of the human population is known to have it.  It’s oddly perfect in her eyes, which makes it rarer than ever.  Too bad she didn’t cut her _jeans_ off with such precision.”

 

The applause hadn’t died down yet, so Natalie risked a question.  “Heterochromia?  So the eyes are real?  What about the hair?”

 

“Heterochromia can happen in the hair, but no, that’s a dye job,” Monk said.  “No doubt inspired by the eyes, and probably by the Disney villain from… _101 Dalmations.”_

 

“Cruella DeVille.”

 

“Yeah, her.  She probably identifies with her not because she was a nasty person and a would-be puppy murderer, but because she was a freak and not afraid to show it,” Monk said.  “It’s a perfect part, right down the middle.  I wonder who her hairdresser is.”

 

“Probably somebody on private retainer, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said, downing his second Scotch.  His face was already quite red but whether it was from the alcohol or the proximity of Monk was an open question.

 

The woman got to speak at last as the applause died out.  Her voice was higher than Monk expected and she spoke almost completely without perceptible regional accent, pointing either to training or to one specific region of the Midwest.  He scanned the pamphlet again but couldn’t find her origins anywhere, only the universities she’d studied at.  Two of them popped out at him.  Iowa State University and the University of Iowa.

 

Of course, she had apparently also studied at the University of Wyoming, Stanford, and Berkley, if this information was to be believed.  Monk didn’t, quite.  This was the thirty-year anniversary of her career.  She didn’t look much over forty and it didn’t look like she’d had plastic surgery, either, although the two dark red tattoos on her face swooping from her bi-colored eyes down to her collarbones made age determination difficult.  Where would she have found time for that much study?  And why would any sane woman do that to their face?

 

“It’s _stage makeup,_ Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.  Monk was momentarily confused until he realized he must have said the last words of his thoughts aloud.  “Just paint, like clown makeup.  Like… Alice Cooper or Kiss wears.”

 

“That’s not paint, Captain.  That’s a tattoo.  And she’s had it redone at least once.  It must have started to fade.  Tattoos do that,” Monk said.

 

“It’s all just part of the show, now sit quiet and listen.  You want to catch her in the act, don’t you?” Stottlemeyer said, with a gesture at the stage.

 

“…have been a lot of songs and a lot of artists that have inspired me over the course of my career, and if you don’t mind, I’d just like to play a couple of those songs for you now before we get down to business.  It won’t take long, and maybe it will spark some memories for you, the way they always do for me,” the woman said on stage, and sat down at the piano.  A few soft opening notes, she turned her face toward the microphone, and began to sing.

 

_“Whoa… my love… my darlin’… I’ve hungered for… your touch… a long… lonely time…”_

Stottlemeyer turned to T.K. and they came in close together for Eskimo kisses as people applauded their recognition of the song.  “Oh, I love this song,” Natalie said, with a deep sigh.  “Makes me wish Steven was here.”

 

“I’m not familiar with it,” Monk said.  Natalie stared at him.

 

“I shouldn’t be surprised but I am.  I’m shocked, Mr. Monk.  You don’t know ‘Unchained Melody?’  The _Righteous Brothers?”_

 

“You know I don’t listen to hip hop,” Monk said.

 

“Gah.  Never mind.”  She turned back to the stage.

 

“Well, she is playing that piano melody, but it’s a fairly simple one,” Monk said.  “Hopefully she’ll do something more complicated later and prove whether or not she’s the great musician they say she is.”

 

“Complicated is what she’s known for,” T.K. said.  “You won’t be disappointed.”

 

“How can you tell that she’s really playing right now, Mr. Monk?” Natalie said.

 

“Well, technically I can’t, but her hands are in the right place and her fingers are on the right keys, so even if she isn’t, she clearly knows how, which works out to the same thing in the end, more or less.”

 

“I didn’t know you could play piano, Monk,” Stottlemeyer said.

 

“I can’t.”

 

“Then how do you know that _she_ can play?”

 

“Ambrose plays,” Monk said simply.  “I watched him play a lot when we were kids.  We used to play together sometimes, him on the piano and me on the clarinet.”

 

“And from watching _him_ you learned -- never mind,” Natalie said.

 

“So you were the Tommy Dorsey to his Jimmy Dorsey, eh?” Stottlemeyer said, tossing back his third Scotch.

 

 _“Jimmy_ Dorsey played the clarinet.  And Tommy Dorsey was a _trombonist,_ not a pianist,” Monk said.  “And Jimmy Dorsey didn’t _only_ play the clarinet, for that matter.  He was also a saxophonist and a trumpeter.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“Unchained Melody” concluded and the Dragon segued without hesitation into a solo piano version of Don McClean’s “Everybody Loves Me, Baby.”  The song was upbeat, lively, and she was trying her best to play the part, but Monk of course couldn’t help but notice that something was off in her performance.

 

“She’s distracted,” he said.  “Something has her upset.  Maybe the shorts.  I’d be upset if I wore shorts like that in public.”

 

“You don’t wear shorts,” Natalie pointed out.  “And she wears shorts like that all the time, Mr. Monk.  It’s her style.”

 

“Oh, I doubt that very much,” Monk said.  “Everything else about her is precise, even the… _tattoos_.  She went to _medical school,_ for crying out loud.  Odd-legged shorts aren’t really her thing.  Someone else cut those jeans off for her, she didn’t do it herself or it would have been done right.”

 

“How do you figure she went to medical school?” Stottlemeyer said.

 

“Why else would you go to the University of Iowa?” Monk said.  “I know she’s an Iowan, but still, she obviously wasn’t afraid to leave home.  She went to Stanford _and_ Berkley, too.”

 

Natalie chuffed an incredulous laugh she knew already she’d regret at some point.  “Okay, Mr. Monk.  Why did she go to the University of Wyoming, then?” she asked, looking at the relevant part of the pamphlet.

 

“Not sure.  Really don’t know why anyone would go there.  The isolation, maybe?  They do have a great paleontology department, though.  It’s a good place to learn mineralogy, too.”

 

“What makes you think she’s upset?” T.K. asked.

 

“She’s strained.  Forcing that smile.  She doesn’t want to look out at the audience,” Monk said.  “Of course, since she didn’t put in her contacts, she can’t really see us.  And that’s telling, too.  Why didn’t she take the time to put in her contacts?  She must have been very pressed for time.  And her hair’s a mess, too.”

 

“Her hair is supposed to be like that,” Natalie said.  “It’s stiffened.”

 

“No it isn’t, it’s gelled,” Monk said.  “Permanent stiffeners ruin the hair, make it coarse.  Her hair is fine and soft, even where it’s stuck upright.  It’s just mousse, or some strong hair gel.  Something she can wash out quickly when it isn’t needed.  It looks like she did her hair in the car on the way to the club.  Bits aren’t sticking up.  If a proper hairdresser had done it, or if she’d had time and a mirror and someone to spot-check, it would be done properly.”

 

They sat in silence for a moment, but no one at the table was fooled into thinking it could last.  “Boy, she is really distracted,” Monk said again.

 

“Maybe it’s that jerk in the audience who won’t shut up during the performance,” Stottlemeyer said, his eyes narrowed.

 

Monk whipped around in his seat.  “Who is that?  That is very rude!  Anyway, no.  No, like I pointed out, she was distracted before she got here.  She’s upset about something, or angry… or afraid.”


	3. Mr. Monk Turns Down the Heat

_“Don’t want to wake up with no one beside me.  Don’t want to take up with nobody new.  Don’t want nobody comin’ by without calling first.  Don’t want nothin’ to do with you…”_

 

“She must like Warren Zevon a lot,” Monk said as the Dragon went into a hands-free harmonica solo as she strummed her guitar.

 

“How do you figure?” Stottlemeyer asked.

 

“This is the third song of his she’s played.”

 

“How do _you_ know?”

 

“Isn’t it obvious?”

 

“To someone who knows the artist, yeah, but to you?  Come on, man.  You don’t even know the Righteous Brothers.”

 

“How many times do I have to say it?  I don’t listen to hip hop.”

 

“But you listen to Warren Zevon.”

 

“No.  But… well, Trudy did.”

 

“Trudy?”

 

“Well, she sang one of his songs all the time, anyway.  ‘Werewolves of London.’”

 

“And from that, you’re an expert on all his music.  Because you heard Trudy sing one of his songs.”

 

Monk fiddled with the tablecloth for a few moments, then glanced back up at the Captain.  “Yes.”

 

“Bullshit.  I call bullshit.  Even _knowing_ that it’s you, Monk.”

 

“Dear… he’s right.  ‘Splendid Isolation’ _is_ Warren Zevon,” T.K. said, looking at her glass.  The other two were ‘I Was In the House When the House Burned Down’ and ‘Piano Fighter.’  There was actually a _fourth_ \-- ‘Excitable Boy,’ played right at the show’s open, but Mr. Monk seems to have blocked that one out.”

 

Monk looked at the captain and his mouth twitched, then his head did the same.  It was as close to “I told you so” as he dared to express.

 

“Is it getting hot in here?” Monk said, tugging at his buttoned up shirt collar.  “I feel hot.”

 

“Well, you are the only one in a shirt and suit jacket, Monk, and that includes the wait staff and management,” Stottlemeyer said, returning to his drink with an interesting expression of angry resignation that was common to him in his dealings with Monk.

 

“It’s hot in here.  It was cool at first, but now it’s getting hot.  Hot and hotter.  I think the heat is on.”

 

“Well, it is January,” Natalie said.

 

“Yes, but it’s a reasonably warm night.  I don’t think they need it so hot in here,” Monk said.  “I can feel the hot air blowing on me.  Under those lights on stage it must be killer.  She looks so uncomfortable.”

 

“She’s a lot more dressed down than you are, Monk.  I’m sure she can handle it,” Stottlemeyer said.

 

“You know, she actually always plays with the air conditioning on, or in open air arenas, when she plays,” T.K. said.  “It’s in her contract.”  They all looked at her.  “What?  I’m a fan.  I pick things up here and there.”

 

“Well, surely not in _January,”_ Natalie reemphasized.

 

“Honey, she played halftime at a Packers game at Lambeau Field during a blizzard, shorts and a t-shirt, barefoot like she is now, then stayed after the show to party with the tailgaters in the parking lot _without even putting on a pair of shoes!_   She doesn’t care about the cold.”

 

“That’s impossible.  On stage, under the lights, maybe she would’ve been warm enough, but on cold asphalt, in snow… impossible,” Monk said.

 

“I can’t explain it, but it happened.”

 

“Maybe she’s a Polar Bear,” the captain suggested.

 

“Captain, she’s big, but she’s still obviously human,” Monk said.

 

“I didn’t say she wasn’t, Monk, I mean one of those people who goes diving into cold water every winter for no good reason.  They can train themselves to withstand the cold.”

 

“Maybe.  Maybe.  I wonder what’s on her bracelet?” Monk said.

 

“Looks like a shamrock to me,” Natalie said, squinting at the large gold charm dangling from the Dragon’s left wrist.

 

“I didn’t mean the charm, Natalie.  I meant the bracelet itself,” Monk said.

 

“What do you mean?  Isn’t it just a charm bracelet?”

 

“With only one charm?  It’s a medical ID bracelet.  A cheap one, too -- she hasn’t been wearing it long but all the red enamel paint from the medical symbol has peeled off already.”

 

“How do you know it isn’t just old?”

 

Monk gave her a “Well, duh” look.  “Natalie.  Red enamel paint.  Good medical ID bracelets are done with _proper_ enamel that would chip and not peel.  She could easily afford a… _solid gold_ bracelet if she wanted one, so chances are she just hasn’t gotten it yet.  Plus, between songs she keeps adjusting it.  Sure sign of someone who isn’t used to something.”

 

“Oh, it’s so hot in here,” Monk said again, unbuttoning his collar by one button.  “I don’t know how she can stand it up there, under all those hot lights.  She’s not even sweating.”

 

“Okay, yeah, it’s a little hot in here, geez, will you give it up?” Stottlemeyer said.

 

“Oh, she’s fading out,” Monk said, watching the Dragon slump over her guitar as she played the first of her original pieces.  “Doesn’t anyone else see this?  And she’s still not… sweating…  Oh my God…”

 

He jumped up from his seat.  People all around began complaining.  “Sit down, Mr. Monk!” Natalie hissed.

 

“I have to find the thermostat!” he said, and scurried for the wall nearest the bar.

 

“Hey, hey!  Nobody touches that but management!” the bartender said, pushing him away from the white wall device.

 

“It’s set to ninety-five in here!  She has anhidrosis -- she can’t sweat!  She could get heatstroke!  It’s literally _killing_ her!”

 

“Oh, shit!  I turned that down myself, I swear I did!”  The bartender flipped the switch to air conditioning and set the temperature to sixty-five.  “I don’t know what the fuck happened, but by God, you saved me from a hell of a lot of trouble, man.  Thank you.”

 

Monk smiled a thin smile and his head twitched.  “You would have noticed sooner or later,” he said politely, but he was thinking to himself that it might have been too late by that time.  Anhidrosis was a serious condition, caused by genetic mutation or by various medications, whereby the body either partly or completely stopped producing sweat.  A dream come true, he thought, at least on the surface, but a major problem in very warm locations.  Without sweat, the body could not cool itself.  Heat exhaustion or heatstroke was the ultimate, and potentially fatal, result.

 

He returned to his seat.  He could already feel the air conditioner pumping out cool air into the heated atmosphere.  Apparently she could, too, because she was sitting up straight over her twelve-string guitar where before she had slumped.  She made eye contact with him beyond the stage lights and stopped strumming long enough to make a gesture with her hand, raising it to her chin and moving it away as though she were blowing him a kiss, but not with her mouth.  It was the American Sign Language sign for “Thank You.”  Monk formed a “W” with his index, middle, and ring fingers and held them to his own chin, then moved them off in the same sort of gesture -- ASL for “You’re Welcome” -- and she beamed at him with a true radiance that shocked him so that he lowered himself into his chair in a sort of daze.  The tattoos, the chains, the piercings… they all vanished in that instant.  All he could see was that smile, and how much… she looked like Trudy in that moment.

 


	4. Mr. Monk and That Certain Song

“She should really pick a style and stick with it,” Monk complained.

 

“She hasn’t played anything but her folk rock tonight,” T.K. said.

 

“That’s not what I meant,” Monk said.  “The different pitches, timbres, head voice, diaphragm voice, back and forth and on and on.  It’s getting annoying.”

 

“It’s what made her famous.  She’s the ‘Woman of 10,000 Voices.’  She can imitate anyone, and actually, _factually_ sing from high Soprano to low Bass, no falsetto required,” T.K. said, sitting further upright in excitement.

 

“That just seems impossible,” Natalie said.

 

“It should be,” Monk said.  “No wonder everyone suspects her of fraud.  And she only has one voice.  Just a lot of pitches and timbres.  Nowhere near ten thousand yet.”

 

Onstage, the Dragon turned to the piano and began to play, a sweeter melody than the usual.  Definitely a ballad.  Probably a love song.  Monk adjusted his collar, once again buttoned all the way, and settled in to listen, not for the words themselves but for any sign of corruption in her voice or in her playing.  This was supposed to be her original work now, perhaps he could catch her out as not being the author of the piece.

 

_“You know I didn’t want to leave you,_

_No, not this way._

_You know you are my bread and butter,_

_My sunshine on a rainy day.”_

At the phrase “bread and butter” Monk felt as though he’d been punched in the sternum.  He continued to listen, terrified of what he’d hear next but a bit eager, too.

 

_“And though I know you’re gonna cry now,_

_And I know you’re gonna grieve,_

_Just know that I’ll always love you,_

_And I’ll never really leave.”_

_“And I will be your anchor in the harbor_

_When the storm is blowing ‘round._

_I will be the rock that you can cling to_

_When you think you’re gonna drown._

_Baby, but when the bad weather is over,_

_And the sun shines through again,_

_I want you to reevaluate the_

_Life you’re living then.”_

“What is this song?” Monk asked, dry-mouthed.

 

“‘Anchor,’” Stottlemeyer answered promptly.

 

 

“That’s not the title,” T.K. said innocently.

 

“The other is the _alternate_ title.  You know, the title they only use in France and Spain and parts of Italy.”  Stottlemeyer’s heavy blond brows telegraphed a frantic message to his wife.

 

“What are you… Oh!  Yes, yes, I was thinking of a different song altogether.  Yeah, there is an alternate title to this song, isn’t there?  But I don’t like it as much.  ‘Anchor’ suits it much better.”

 

Monk slowly turned his head and stared long and hard at T.K.  “You know… the title to this song, T.K.  You’re the fan here, the _real_ fan.  Not Leland.  You know this music inside and out.  The real title… is _‘Trudy,’_ isn’t it, Trudy?  That… _woman_ … wrote a song about _my_ Trudy.”

 

“Mr. Monk, calm down,” Natalie said, genuinely worried.

 

He wasn’t hearing it.  He shot to his feet like he’d been kicked out of his chair.  Stottlemeyer stood up as well and crossed over to him.  He got him in a quick headlock as he made a break for the stage.  “See you at the car, Babe,” Leland said to T.K. as he pulled the struggling Monk toward the exit.

 

Outside, Stottlemeyer pushed Monk up against the wall of the club not _too_ roughly.  “Look, Monk -- I know it comes as a shocker, and by God, I had hoped it wouldn’t happen, but it _did,_ and all you can do is just go on now.  A lot of people, they’d be… _honored.”_

 

 _“Honored?_ That she’s making money off my _misery?”_ Monk said.

 

“She’s not, Monk.  All the profits from that single went to the SFPD Widows and Orphans Fund,” Stottlemeyer said, looking down at the sidewalk between them.  “You didn’t see any of it because… well, it was a technicality.  Trudy wasn’t a cop.”

 

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” Monk said, looking earnestly at Stottlemeyer.  “Why let me find out like this?”

 

“Honestly, I never thought you’d ever find out.  You’re as into Pop and Rock and Metal music as Ludwig van Beethoven would be if he were still alive and still deaf.  I thought… I thought it would hurt you.  You’ve been doing fantastic lately, Monk -- don’t let this be a setback.”

 

“She wrote about Trudy,” Monk said, tears liquefying his nearly black eyes in the dim light of the neon sign above them.

 

“Yeah.  She did.  I guess your story touched her.”

 

“You should have just told me.”

 

“Maybe so.  But you were in a real bad way back then, Monk.  When you got better, I kind of forgot about it.  The song didn’t get a lot of airtime, at least for a Dragon song.  I mean, she comes out with something like one new song a week, the old hits tend to fall by the wayside.”

 

“Why did she sing it tonight?” Monk demanded, grabbing for Stottlemeyer’s shirt.

 

“She sings it every time in her public appearances since then.  Since they’re pretty rare and I’ve never made it to one before, I… I forgot about it.”

 

“You sure forget a lot.”

 

“Yeah, Monk, because I’m not _you._ Now the concert’s letting out.  I’ll get Natalie to take you home.”

 

“No.  I have to see her.”

 

“Monk, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

 

“I have to see her.  There’s an autograph session after these things, yes?  I have just as much right to be in that line as everyone else here.”  Monk stood up and straightened out his clothes.  Stottlemeyer stared hard at him for a long time, then nodded.

 

“All right, but Natalie and I are going to be right there with you every minute.”

 

“That’s fine.  Do your thing.  But you’re not stopping me.”

 

“I will if I have to, Monk.”


	5. Mr. Monk and the Dragon

It took some time to join up with Natalie again, and by the time they found her and TK there was quite a lineup outside waiting for autographs and pictures.  Monk didn’t care.  He pushed his way right to the velvet rope where the Dragon was signing.

 

“Whoa, hey, you’ll get your turn.  Just take it easy, man,” she said.

 

“Miss the Dragon?  I know you don’t know me, but I think you knew my wife?  Trudy Monk?” Monk said in a voice that was not quite a shout to be heard above the milling fans all talking and yelling.

 

The Dragon froze.  Then she turned her head to the beefy assistant that followed her movements.  “Paulo, glasses please,” she said.

 

“But ma’am, you know you’re not supposed to wear --”

 

“Glasses please, Paulo,” she said again, in the same polite tone but with a certain finality of expression.  The man pulled a large pair of wire-rimmed specs from his shirt pocket and handed them over.  She unfolded the bows and put them on.  “Oh my God…” she said.

 

Natalie tugged at Monk’s sleeve.  “Come on, Mr. Monk.  Let’s go home,” she said quietly.

 

“No, don’t,” the musician said.  She stepped forward and unhooked the velvet rope from the gold stanchion.  Stunned, all the fans who had strained to reach her over the rope fell back from it as she drew it away.  She reached out one enormous hand and offered it to Monk.  Without any hesitation at all, without apparent thought, he reached out and took it.  She drew him out of the line of people and reattached the barrier.

 

“I think we need to talk,” she said.  “Come home with me.”

 

“Whoa, wait -- no way,” Natalie said, alarmed.

 

“I’m a big boy, Natalie.  I can go off by myself for a few hours,” Monk said, not taking his eyes from the Dragon’s face.

 

“I - I - ”  Natalie threw her hands up.  “I trust _you,_ Mr. Monk, more than I trust anyone _else_ in this equation.”

 

“Actually, me too,” Stottlemeyer said.  “Ma’am, that man is… _different_ from other people you might come across, and _very_ important to the city of San Francisco professionally and myself in a _personal_ sense.  I have to insist you release him.”

 

“I don’t have him in handcuffs,” the musician said.  “And I think no matter how special he might be, he’s capable of making the choice for himself.  I swear to you both, I might chew on him a little, but I’ll return enough pieces for you to identify the body.”

 

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” Stottlemeyer said, watching sourly alongside Natalie as Monk walked arm-in-arm away towards the limousine idling nearby.

 

“Do you really think she could hurt him?” Natalie said.

 

 _“That_ woman could take down a _Brahma bull,”_ Stottlemeyer said.  “Monk don’t stand a chance.”

 

“Not what I meant.”

 

“Yeah, I know.  Truth is, I don’t know.  He’s been doing real well, but this shook him, you saw that.  This shook him hard.  Maybe talking to her about it will set him back on his feet, who knows?  Maybe it’ll knock him back down to rock bottom.  No way to know ‘til he’s there.  Do you want us to take you home?”

 

“No, that’s okay,” Natalie said.  “Thanks anyway, Captain.  I had fun tonight, despite Monk.  I hope you did, too.”

 

“You know what, I _did,”_ Stottlemeyer said.  “Didn’t expect to, once you guys showed up.  No offense, but you know what I’m saying.”

 

“Yeah, I do.  I’ll keep you notified about Monk.  I’ll probably hear from him first.”

 

“Yeah, please do.”

 

“Captain?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Pray.”

 

“Will do.”

 

Inside the slow-moving limo, Monk was taking in everything.  Dark tinted divider separating the driver from the spacious passenger compartment.  Immaculate black leather upholstery.  A well-stocked mini bar.  Was that even legal?  Well, the driver had no access, so he guessed it was a loophole.  It was the first thing she reached for upon entering the vehicle.  Monk pursed his lips, but relaxed when she withdrew a bottle of soda pop instead of one of the liquor bottles.  Pop wasn’t good for you either, but at least she wasn’t a drunkard.

 

“Have anything you want,” she said, and cracked open the cap.  She threw her head back, chugging fully half the bottle in one go.  “Damn, I was thirsty.”

 

“You should drink water,” Monk said.  “Soda just makes you thirstier.”

 

“I know.  But I confess I am addicted.  I swear I get my sixty-four ounces of clear water a day.”

 

“A woman your size should probably be getting more.”

 

“You don’t mince words.”

 

“It’s the truth.”

 

“I know.”  She drank down the other half of her bottle and stuck it in a cupholder.  Then she fixed him with a steely glare he couldn’t really read.  “I expected you a _long_ time before now, Mr. Monk.  I actually _stopped_ expecting you to come popping out of the woodwork.”

 

“Yeah, I’m… not real ‘up’ on pop culture.  I didn’t know there was a song before tonight,” he said, with a fairly violent head twitch.  “Why - why _is_ there a song?”

 

“That’s a long story, Mr. Monk,” Dragon said with a sigh.

 

“You’re an entertainer.  Entertain me.”

 

“There’s no rush.  I will tell you all about it when we get to my house.  It will… hopefully… make more sense there.”

 

“Where do you live?” Monk asked.

 

“Just outside of the city.  By the way, are you afraid of or allergic to animals?”

 

Monk stiffened.  “What kind of animals?” he asked.

 

“Dogs and cats, mostly.”

 

“I can… handle them.  As long as they don’t, you know… _approach_ me.”

 

“They’re very well behaved.  But if you’re quiet and well-behaved yourself, certain ones may _draw_ to you.  It’s just a fact of dogs and cats.”

 

“Well.  I’m not allergic.  I can… deal.”

 

“We’ll go into my studio and close the door.  They’re not typically allowed in there, and they know it.”

 

“How many… dogs and cats do you have?” Monk asked, with a gulp.

 

“It’s in constant flux.  Apart from my own pets, I run a rescue shelter out of my home.”

 

“Oh.  That’s… admirable.”

 

“You’re not a pet person.”  It wasn’t a question.

 

“I had a dog once.  For… a couple of days.”

 

“I… see.”

 

“I really came to love her.  But I can barely take care of myself, let alone another creature.  She and her babies are with a good family now.  I go see them every once in awhile, when I can stand to.  She still remembers me.”

 

“Dogs have good memories for people that love them.  They love them back.”

 

“I think I get that, now.”

 

She was silent for awhile, then said, “I think I should warn you, you’ll probably be paparazzi-fodder for awhile.  I don’t go home with people very often.  Or _ever._ This is going to be _all over_ the gossip rags.”

 

“That’s okay,” he said.  “I don’t go out much as it is.”

 

“Neither do I.”

 

“Why do you live in San Francisco?” he asked, rather suddenly.  “The big recording companies are all in Los Angeles, aren’t they?”

 

“I used to be with them,” she said.  “But I _hate_ LA.  So, when I had enough money to start my own label, I scouted out a better place.  I decided on San Francisco.  It’s not so far away that the Hollywood types think it totally barbarous, and it’s just… _friendlier._ At least to my eyes.  I suppose in your line of work you see too much of the other side of it to think so.”

 

“Oh, no.  I think if I lived in Los Angeles I’d have jumped into the ocean by now,” Monk said honestly.  “And I say that as a man who can’t really swim.  You like living in California?”

 

“It’s all right.”

 

“You’re from the Midwest.”  It wasn’t a question.

 

“Iowa.”

 

“I know.”

 

“It’s not in any of my personal information, not even on the internet,” she said, one dark blonde eyebrow elevated.

 

“You claim to have attended both the University of Iowa _and_ Iowa State University.  How much more obviously Iowan can you get?” he said comfortably.  “Plus your accent, or rather lack thereof, places you somewhere around North Central Iowa.  The Fort Dodge region or thereabouts.”

 

“Frightening accuracy, Mr. Monk.  I am indeed a Dirty Dodger.”

 

“They send professional TV and radio broadcasters there to the local community college to learn how to speak clearly,” Monk said.

 

“I’m aware.  I _wasn’t_ aware that it was so different from the non-accent of California as to be _remarked.”_

 

“Nobody else would notice.  I’m a professional.”

 

“Well, you’re _very_ good at what you do.”

 

“It’s a blessing.  _And_ a curse.”

 

Silence fell in the back of the limousine.  Miles passed, not entirely uncomfortably.  Monk became aware of the fact that he wasn’t entirely certain _why_ he was there, but it didn’t bother him overmuch.  It was a mystery, and he would solve it the same as any other, more easily than most no doubt.  She could have, after all, just told him that she was sorry for his loss and sent him on his way.  Any other person in her position would surely have done that very thing.  Why then was he traveling with her in luxury to her home, at the expense of her reputation and perhaps his own as well?

 

It took quite a drive, but eventually they turned into a spacious private lot.  The driver let them out of the car and the Dragon paid him an exorbitant amount of cash, and he left them standing in front of a large, neat-looking house with a great deal of glass closed off by some very heavy draperies.

 

“Why have all these windows if you’re not going to use them?” Monk asked, almost on automatic.

 

“I bought the house for the view, but recent health problems have made too much sunshine problematic for me, particularly when it is intensified by glasswork,” she said.  “It’s either drapes or constant sunglasses, which are only partially effective.”

 

“That’s too bad.  What recent health problems?”

 

“That’s a little too personal for someone I just met, Mr. Monk,” she said.

 

“Epilepsy,” he said matter-of-factly.  “The light gives you eyestrain and migraines.  It always did bother you, but now it’s killer.  You always _had_ epilepsy, but it‘s been latent.  You didn’t know about it.  You only started having seizures in the last, oh… two, three years.”

 

“You should be careful, Mr. Monk.  It wasn’t that long ago from an historical perspective that someone like you would have been burnt at the stake.”

 

“Your Med ID bracelet flipped over.  I saw the underside.”

 

“It doesn’t say anything about how long I’ve _had_ epilepsy.”

 

“Yeah, but the wear and tear on the bracelet puts it at about two to three years.  Longer than I’d thought you’d been wearing it at first.  I don’t know why you haven’t bought a _decent_ one yet.  Why do you keep fiddling with it?  You should be used to it by now.”

 

“I’ll never get used to wearing a bracelet.  I _hate_ bracelets.”

 

“They have Med ID _necklaces,”_ Monk said.

 

“I already _wear_ a necklace,” the Dragon said, and fished a chain out from under her t-shirt.  It was short (on her) and from it depended a Maltese cross done in high-end fake diamonds on silver.  It was very clean and sparkled like the real thing.

 

“You know those aren’t real diamonds, right?” he said.

 

“Yes, I _know._ I’m not stupid.  Real diamonds, at least of _this_ size and color, aren’t typically set on _sterling,_ are they?”

 

“Well, as long as you’re aware,” he said, settling the shoulders of his suit jacket properly.  “Although it does beg the question of why you’re not willing to swap it out for a useful Med ID necklace if you hate bracelets so much.”

 

“My _mother_ gave it to me.  She spent _eighty frickin’ bucks_ on it.”

 

 _“Eighty dollars?_ For a fake diamond knock-off?  _Wow.”_

 

“No one ever said my mother was good with finances.  But it’s the only gift she’s ever given me, so it’s pretty frickin’ special.”

 

“Could you… stop saying that word, please?” Monk said, flinching away from her.

 

“What word?” she asked.

 

“The… the ‘F’ word,” he said.

 

“Frickin’?  You have a problem with the word ‘frickin’?”

 

He put his hands over his ears.

 

“Okay, okay, I won’t say it.  Sorry, didn’t know you were Amish.”

 

“I’m not religious.  I’m just… _meek.”_

 

“And ye shall inherit the earth.  I mean, if you really _want_ it.  Come on, let’s get inside.”

 

She stopped him at the door.  “Caution.  I was well occupied for most of the day, so the ravening horde may well descend upon us despite their usual good behavior,” she said.

 

“What do you mean?” Monk said.

 

“I mean wiggling butts, wagging tails, baying hounds, the whole nine yards.  They’ll focus on me, but you may get a sniff or two.  They’re on the other side of this door, and I _know_ their ears are already perked to our voices.”

 

Monk squared his shoulders.  “Bring it on,” he said, more bravely than he really felt.

 

She disarmed the security system and unlocked the door.  “That’s not a very good passcode,” Monk said.

 

“What?” she replied.

 

“9035768,” he said.  “Anybody could guess that.  At least from a musician like yourself.”

 

“How?” she asked, sounding a bit dangerous.

 

“It’s the telephone number from the song ‘Jenny,’ by Tommy Tutone, input backwards. ‘867-5309.’” Monk said.  “Even _I_ know _that.”_

 

“Guess I should _change_ it, then,” she said tightly, and let them in.

 

The night exploded in a flurry of loud barking.  She didn’t turn on a light, just clapped her hands together once.  In Monk’s house, this would serve the same purpose, but instead of the lights coming on, the horde of barbarous hounds quieted immediately, except for a single Maltese mix that continued to yap.

 

“Kash, we’ve talked about this propensity of yours,” the Dragon said, very seriously, and the dog quieted.  The dogs milled about her feet and legs, sniffing and wagging, their tongues lolling, getting pats and affection, and as she had intimated one or two gave semi-curious glances in Monk’s direction, but she remained the main focus of their attention.  Most of them were small, some few were varying degrees of large, and three specimens were _enormous._

 

“What kind of dog is that?” Monk asked, sidling further away from a gigantic white pile of fur that seemed to stand almost as large as its oversized mistress, and probably would if it stood up on its hind legs.

 

“Great Pyrenees.  Her name is Maisie.  She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” the Dragon said, roughhousing with the beast.

 

“She looks like a polar bear.”

 

“Well, let’s get to the studio.  You’ll be more comfortable in there.”

 

She parted the sea of animals like Moses parting the Red Sea, and led Monk through halls lined with aquariums and terrariums filled with things he didn’t necessarily want to look at.  Lots of other things to see, though, and he made note of all of them.  He had to, he wouldn’t be Monk if he didn’t.  She brought him to a small room that wasn’t what he expected.  Instead of a recording studio, this had all the earmarks of a writer’s or a painter’s studio, or both.  A small, comfortable place, well-lighted by daylight, no doubt, though it was quite dark right now even when she turned the light on, with an easel in the corner by the large windows, and an Arabesque bed arrangement with a large laptop sitting in an attitude of waiting upon the cushions, plugged in and obviously on, though the screen was down.

 

“Is this your studio or your bedroom?” Monk asked, nervously, eyeing the bed.

 

“A little of both, actually.  I sleep here sometimes when I’m working hard.  The truth is, chairs _suck_ when you’re eight feet tall, so I sit in custom-built beds and on futons and pile up the cushions behind me so that I can sit up a bit.”

 

“I never really thought about how hard it must be to be too tall.”

 

“That’s because you don’t have to.  You are a perfectly _nice_ height of, what, about six foot?”

 

“Five eleven.”

 

“Close enough.  I’m two feet _taller_ than you.  It causes problems.”

 

“I bet you’re good at basketball,” Monk said, hating himself for saying it even as he did so.

 

“No.  I’m not.  And that question is one of the more minor problems.  I _despise_ basketball.”

 

“Do you like… football?” he ventured.

 

“A little.  Mostly I like stock car racing.  The actual _fact_ of it, not the spectator sport of it.  I’d love to do it myself, but… I don’t _fit_ in a stock car.”

 

“Aren’t they customized for racing?” Monk said.

 

“You still have to climb in and out of the driver’s side window,” she said darkly.  “I’d love to race _horses,_ but yeah, my dreams of being a jockey were shot to hell a long, _long_ time ago.”

 

Monk fiddled with a gold box, with Italian enameled floral design.  It wasn’t quite feng shui in the room.  He couldn’t make it fit anywhere.  Actually, it didn’t really belong in the room at all.  It should just be thrown out.  “Those are my cat’s ashes,” the Dragon said, matter-of-factly, and he jumped back from the box like it was a thousand degrees.

 

“You keep your cat’s ashes in a _box?”_ he said.

 

“I keep them all in various boxes around the house,” she said.  “That one was special.  He was my bestest-best buddy when I really, _really_ needed one, so I keep him in the studio where no one else is really allowed.”

 

“You could at least bury them,” Monk said.

 

“They _will_ be buried,” she said calmly.  “With me.”

 

He forced himself not to think about it, at least as best as he could.  “Why don’t you tell me about the song now?” he said.

 

“I have a better idea,” she said.  “All this evening you’ve proven time and again how great of a detective you are.  I suggest that I go take a shower and slip into something more…” she grimaced “-- _comfortable,_ and you have a good look around.  When I come back, _you_ tell me all about myself and why I wrote that song.  Sound good?”

 

The gauntlet was thrown.  He nodded once.

 

“Excellent.  Feel free to poke around as much as you like here and in the living room, but please don’t go farther than that.  We’re not alone here, and my girls are sleeping.”

 

“I think I’ve seen what I need to, really.”

 

She dipped her head and raised an eyebrow.  “Really?  Already?  Got me all figured out just like that?  You really are good.”

 

“Well, you know, I’ve got the basics.  Enough to know the behind-the-scenes story.  I think.”

 

“All right,” she said, lowering herself into a seat on the bed.  “Why don’t you start with my name.  Tell me what it is.”

 

“I couldn’t fathom a guess,” he said, and she snorted, “but your initials are SAV, and I would be willing to bet your last name is of Italian extraction.”

 

“How did you know my initials?” she asked.  She looked shaken.

 

“Those initials and the initials AMS are engraved side by side inside the inner band of the engagement ring there on the bedside table next to the photograph.  AMS is engraved first, which is typically the case of the man’s initials.  Admittedly a bit of a leap, given your extreme untraditionality.  Is that a word?  It is now.”

 

“You didn’t even get touch that ring.  You just… _saw_ that.”

 

“I see a lot of things.”

 

“And how did you know I was Italian?  Most people don’t.”

 

“Well, obviously you’re not fully Italian,” Monk amended.  “The shamrock charm on your Med ID bracelet points to some Irish ancestry, obviously.  Blonde hair, also, isn’t exactly common to Italians, although if your family is from the Venetian region, once conquered by the Austrians, blond hair and blue eyes do crop up in the genetic code now and then.  It’s called a ’sport,’ someone who inherits a  recessive gene as dominant.  Your father was probably a blond-haired blue-eyed Venetian sport.  Just a guess.”

 

“Well, he was second-generation American, but… yeah, yeah he was.  But you still haven’t explained to me how you _knew_ that.”

 

“Oh.  The shape of your nose, the tint of your skin.  Both tinged with Irish but still distinctly Italian.  Then, too, your eyes are deeply hooded and… well, ‘V’ is not a common initial for Irish families, so obviously the Italian parent was your father.”

 

“How did you know I’d never been married before?”

 

“It’s not in any of your information.  And judging by the one _singular_ romance novel on your bookshelf amidst the stacks of mysteries, horrors, and classics, and since your fiancé did not make it to the wedding, I imagine that you soured on the very idea of the institution of marriage.”

 

“What does the romance novel have to do with anything?” she asked.

 

“You obviously like to read.  It’s suggestive that you only have _one_ romance novel, one very _well-read_ romance novel, as opposed to many or, conversely, none.  It suggests that you _want_ romance, but are, perhaps, afraid of it.”

 

“And you think that’s because my fiancé left me at the altar.”

 

“No, I think you’ve always been that way,” Monk said.  “And he didn’t leave you, or you’d hate him.  The fact that you keep the ring and the photograph of the two of you together very near to hand in your private studio suggests that you still love him.  No, he died.  Probably shortly before Trudy died in 1997, or maybe as early as 1996, but not too far into that year.  The Disney _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ frame around the photo puts the picture from that year.  And that’s why you wrote the song.”

 

He crossed over to the bedside table and picked up the photograph.  The picture frame had Disney’s Quasimodo in one corner, looking up at the gypsy Esmeralda in the upper corner on the other side and smiling.  In the photo itself were two people smiling into the camera, a man and a woman, the woman clearly the Dragon, the man… dark-eyed with tightly curled brown hair and a wide grin.  He was looking at her like she was the greatest thing on God’s green earth.  “What was his name?” Monk asked, staring at the face that looked so much like his own.

 

“Antonio Scarpacci.  An immigrant from Naples.  He drove a cab for a living,” the Dragon said.  Her voice was tight and overall, Monk thought she was unaware of the fact that she had slipped into an Italian accent.  “No one would ever have written a song for him… and somehow… I couldn’t, either.  Not a word.  The one I wrote for Trudy _sucked,_ truly _sucked._ But it was the best I could do.  For both of us.”

 

“When did it happen?” Monk asked, putting the picture down.

 

“January seventh, 1997.  _Three days_ before our wedding day.  A drunk driver t-boned him at an intersection going eighty miles an hour.  I was a god damned multi-millionaire, but he wouldn’t give up the _fucking cab!”_

 

She kicked, and broke a leg off the easel.  It toppled.  Monk flinched.  She calmed, apparently with some effort.  “My fault.  I should have made him quit.  I could have got him a job anywhere.  Sent him to school _anywhere._ It’s my fault.”

 

“And a drunk driver could have killed him anywhere,” Monk said quietly.  “Or a piece of Skylab could have fallen on him anywhere.  Or he could have had a stroke, or been hit by a tsunami, or any number of disasters.  You can’t protect your loved ones from everything the world has to throw at them.”  The words felt hollow in his own mouth.  They were the same words that had been repeated to him so many times before.

 

“How many psychiatrists did you have to go to before you learned that?” she asked, unfooled.

 

“Just one.  A _lot_ of times.  And then he died, so I had to go to another one, so I guess technically two.  It’s… kind of ongoing.”

 

She snorted again.

 

“I find it interesting that, even though you still love him, you haven’t remained faithful to his memory,” Monk said, eyes boring holes into hers.

 

“I beg your pardon?” she said.

 

“You have children,” Monk said.  “While the Architectural Engineering textbook in the living room indicates that at least _one_ of them is of University age, there are four in the house, and the nearby Hot Wheels race track in that room would seem to suggest that one or more of them is somewhere between the ages of six to ten.”

 

She tilted her head back, chewing her lower lip.  “I’m going to let that slide, because honestly you had no way of knowing, but that was rather sanctimonious of you, you know.”

 

“It was?” Monk said, as always made nervous by the suggestion that there was something he had missed.

 

“Very.  Yes, I have four children.  But they are all adopted.  I didn’t give birth to any of them.  Your insinuations are both annoying and unprofitable, because even if they _were_ my own born children, I wouldn’t _give_ a damn about your opinion.”

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…” he mumbled.

 

“Yes you did.  But I get it.  You can’t help it.  You have a moral code you live by and _nobody_ seems to meet it.”

 

“Not even Trudy,” he muttered, looking away.

 

“You found out something that hit you hard?” the Dragon said shrewdly.

 

“She had a baby.  From… before.  She didn’t know it lived.  Beautiful young woman now.  Put a Restraining Order on me, but I don’t blame her.  I get… _clingy.”_

 

“Well, a part of Trudy is still alive, then.  At least you have that.  I wish I still had some of _Antonio,_ but we wanted to wait until the wedding for… _personal_ family-making.  I already had adopted one daughter before I met him.  She still misses him.  Closest thing to a father she ever had.”

 

“You had something to keep you on your feet,” Monk said.

 

“I did.  I do.  I _need_ it.  Every morning when I wake up I remember what happened and I just want to curl up and die.  Then I think of my girls and I get out of bed again.”

 

“They help you find your strength,” he said.

 

“They _are_ my strength,” she amended.  “If you had children of your own, you’d understand.”

 

“I don’t think I would,” he said, and his dark eyes grew liquid with unshed tears.  “You have to have some basis of strength inside you, first.  Trudy was everything to me.”

 

“And a child would be your everything, too,” she said, quietly but firmly.  “They have to be.  They _need_ you to make them your center of the universe.”

 

“I screw kids up,” Monk said, in a throaty voice.  “It’s this thing I do.”

 

“How much experience do you have with raising them?” she asked.

 

“I… fostered a little boy once.  For a couple of weeks.”

 

These snorts of laughter were really very unseemly from a woman.

 

“I’m sorry, but don’t you think you should put a little more _time_ into something before you decide you’re no good at it?” she said.

 

“You didn’t see Tommy.  I had him crying over dirt stains in the carpet and separating his vegetables by color.  A three-year old shouldn’t be worried about that sort of thing.  He should be too busy playing and learning about the world.”

 

“Okay, I’ll grant you that, but that doesn’t mean you damaged him irreparably.  _You_ could have taught him yourself.”

 

 _“I_ don’t know any other way to be.”

 

Another snort.  Soon she was going to hock up a loogie and Monk was going to lose his lunch on the Berber carpet.

 

“Well, at least you’re self-aware,” she said.  “Most people I know aren’t.”

 

“Was Antonio self-aware?” he asked, realizing he was opening wounds probably better left scabbed over.

 

Interestingly, she didn’t look hurt, only thoughtful.  “Not really.  Kind of oblivious, actually, at least about himself.  He thought of himself solely as a poor immigrant cab driver.  He had no clue how beautiful he was.”

 

“Beautiful?” Monk said, skeptically.  The man, after all, looked like an Italian version of himself.  Beautiful didn’t really enter into it.

 

“Thoughtful, hard-working, considerate, caring, loving… passionate --” she said, with a sidelong glance at Monk.  “We were waiting for the wedding, yes, but that doesn’t mean we were _entirely_ chaste.  And yes, when he smiled at me in that certain way, beautiful.  I was a lucky woman, for a while.”

 

Her voice trailed off into sadness.  Monk decided to change the subject.

 

“What distracted you so badly today that you came to the gig badly dressed, unshowered, unmade-up, and without your contact lenses?  It had something to do with the phone call that put your cell phone on the charger instead of in your pocket, I know.  It must have been a long one.  Nokias have good battery life, and you’re the type of person who would be assiduous in keeping your phone charged.”

 

It worked.  She grabbed hold of this change of topic as to a life preserver in stormy seas.  “Ugh!  _Six hours_ long!  Six hours of listening to my sister blubber and wail.  Her third husband left her for his secretary -- big surprise there! -- and she wants me to foot the bill for her and her five children to move to San Francisco for awhile because _‘She needs family!’_ I never heard _one word_ from her after Antonio died, but let any little thing happen to _her_ and she needs me and my Platinum Card right away.”

 

“The self-centered type, eh?” Monk said.

 

“Self-centered, histrionic, and manipulative as all get-out,” she said.  “I really don’t need her in my life, but she’s my sister.  What am I going to do?  I’ve only got one.”

 

“Maybe she didn’t call you during your time of loss because she felt guilty,” Monk offered.  “That was the case with my brother.  He felt responsible because Trudy was picking up medications for him when she died.”

 

“My sister had no reason to feel responsible for anything, and has no prior history of _taking_ responsibility for anything,” the Dragon said.  “If she’s ever _felt_ guilt in her life, she’s never shown it.”

 

Monk threw up his hands.  “I’m out of ideas,” he said.

 

She smiled.  “Thanks for trying.  If you’ll let me get that shower and get changed, I’ll take you home.”

 

“It’s awfully late.  Aren’t you tired?” Monk asked.  “I mean, can you even drive?”

 

“If you’re asking about my legality to drive on account of my epilepsy, I haven’t had a seizure in two years.  I have my license back.  As to the lateness of the hour, I don’t sleep much.  My _back_ hurts, on account of that phone call, but that will be remedied, more or less, after the shower, which is why I want to take it first.  Well, that and the fact that I’m sure I stink to high heaven.  If _you_ are tired, I do have a very nice guest room.  You are welcome to stay until the morning, when my driver can take you anywhere you’d like to go.”

 

Stay in a guest room without clean clothes or pajamas, or be driven home before dawn by an epileptic insomniac.  The decision was a tough one.  Finally he blurted out “I’ll stay, if you don’t mind.”  Instantly, he wanted to take it back, but the damage was done.  He would be sleeping in his clothes tonight.  Hell.

 


End file.
